


Recollections of Ruby and Black

by whovianbard



Category: Torchwood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 08:53:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17598155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whovianbard/pseuds/whovianbard
Summary: There are a hundred nights Owen Harper wishes he could remember, but only one he wishes he could forget.Originally published on 22nd September 2010.Set between 'Something Borrowed' and 'Exit Wounds'





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I don't own anything in the Who-verse. That honour belongs to RTD and the mighty and glorious BBC. No copyright infringement is intended.

“Tosh, are you up to anything this weekend?” Toshiko Sato looked up sharply. Not that there was anything particularly startling about the question, but the person asking the question? That was another matter entirely. It was rare that Owen took an interest in her daily routine, and practically unheard of for him to question her occasional days off. Clearly he was up to something. Her suspicion was further fuelled by the fact that he was holding out a mug containing what smelt like Ianto's special brew.

“Nothing special,” she said cautiously, curiosity overwhelming her keen sense of self-preservation. She relieved him of the mug of coffee, taking a cautious sip. Yep. Ianto's finest. Owen's motives must be seriously suspect if he'd had to charm Ianto into brewing some of his special occasion blend to butter her up.

“Why?” She took off her glasses, laying them on her keyboard and tucking a stray brown hair behind one ear as she turned to face him. Her eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“No reason,” Owen said nonchalantly with a swift grin which worried Tosh even more than the coffee. “I've just got this thing on. I wondered if you fancied going with me?”

Despite her growing suspicions, Tosh's heart gave a wild leap. Was this it? Was Owen actually asking her out on a date? For a split second she allowed herself to revel in the long cherished dream that Owen would finally notice her and sweep her off her sensible feet in a spontaneous burst of passion. Then her much admired common sense kicked in, sending her hopeful thoughts crashing to the floor. Since his 'death', Owen had kept pretty much to himself, only venturing from the Hub when field work called. Whatever this thing was, it was no common or garden date. It had to be something pretty serious to bring Owen out of his self-imposed solitude.

“What is it?” she asked, suspicion and tattered dreams making her voice uncharacteristically harsh. God, what was that expression on Owen's usually smug face? Could it actually be embarrassment? If he'd had flowing blood Tosh was convinced he'd be blushing.

“A wedding,” he mumbled, not daring to meet her eyes. He should have known this would be a really bad idea. Things between him and Tosh had been...complicated since his death. He had the distinct feeling he'd just opened a large can of very big worms.

“A what?” Her exclamation was almost a shriek.

“A wedding. OK? Don't make me say it again,” Owen said mulishly. “My cousin Amelia. If I don't show up the Harper clan will send out a manhunt. I'm already having enough trouble explaining why I never visit anymore.” He looked at Tosh, his dark eyes troubled, the sharp planes of his cheekbones picked out by the harsh lights of the Hub, emphasising the hollows of his cheeks. “Amelia's mum, my aunt, she kind of looked after me after mum...you know? Anyway, I owe her.” Tosh found herself nodding. She knew a little about Owen's troubled childhood, the physical abuse he'd suffered at the hands of his alcoholic mother. Not that he ever spoke about it. It was his secret. They'd all had their secrets, Owen, Ianto, Gwen, and Jack. One by one all the secrets had been revealed, their dangerous life somehow inviting confidences. Even her secret had forced its way to the surface the day Owen had been shot. She'd told him she loved him. To his face, thinking it had been her last chance to confess. But Jack wouldn't let Owen rest in peace and now he was condemned to a half-life and her confession hung in the air between them. She'd tried to laugh it off, explain it away, but still it hung there, almost tangible, every time they spoke. She'd noticed Owen had kept his distance since, something that hurt her immeasurably. But she could understand it, and so she'd done the same. It must be desperation indeed to bring Owen to her side now.

“So why do you need me?” Tosh asked finally, the reason for Ianto's special brew suddenly becoming clear. She kept her tone business-like, as if Owen Harper asking her to a wedding was an everyday occurrence.

“Come on, Tosh. Can you imagine me at this wedding? Have a drink Owen! Why aren't you eating this lavish four course dinner, Owen? Why won't you dance with me, Owen? Why is your skin as cold as ice, Owen?” Owen's voice was bitter. “I can hardly turn around and say, well actually I'm dead, but I don't want to spoil your special day so please carry on regardless and don't mind me.”

“So, you want me to be a distraction?” Tosh's voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

“Basically, yeah!” Owen's response was stark.

“And what's in it for me?” Tosh returned, equally as starkly. Did Owen have a clue how cruel he was being? Asking her to pretend to be his girlfriend for the weekend? Because that's what he was asking, even if he hadn't got the guts to say the actual words.

For a moment Owen looked taken aback, then he had the grace to look a little ashamed. He tried an apologetic smile.

“A night in a five-star hotel, a slap up meal, and a new dress?” he offered. “Please, Tosh. I really need you to do this.” He turned a beseeching look in her direction, his dark eyes soulful.

“Oh, for God's sake. Yes, I'll go with you,” she said fractiously. She never could resist those eyes. “Where is it?”

Owen grinned, rubbing his hands together in a gesture which spoke suspiciously of triumph.

“The Peak District.”

“The Peak District? But that's in Derbyshire. It's miles away,” Tosh protested, suddenly envisaging two long car journeys filled with uncomfortable silences added to the other tortures.

“Two hours each way,” Owen said confidently. “Tops.”

“Three at a pinch,” Tosh muttered under her breath, but in truth she was already planning her outfit, something that would knock Owen onto his smug backside, and show him just what he'd been missing.

\--o0o--

Saturday morning came around too quickly. With every passing hour that brought her closer to her weekend with Owen, Tosh had felt a greater impending sense of doom. It didn't matter that she had promised herself that she would keep things brisk and business-like, maintaining a cool professionalism that would keep Owen at arm’s length. And it didn't matter that Owen probably couldn't give a toss what she did as long as it deflected questions away from him. All she knew was she was going to spend forty-eight hours at close quarters with Owen Harper and it was going to be hell on earth. On the Friday evening she even got as far as picking up the phone to dial his number, intending to feign illness, before she realised that Owen would most likely come over straight away to diagnose whatever it was that was wrong with her and catch her in a lie. Finally, at one in the morning, she bowed to the inevitable and packed an overnight bag.

\--o0o--

Owen pulled up outside Tosh's flat just after seven, intending to sound the horn. In his experience women were never ready when it came to social occasions, irrespective of how punctual they were in the rest of life. Give them the need to coordinate dress, shoes and handbag and even the most punctual of women was a minimum of twenty minutes late. Consequently he always made it rule to tell his dates a time half an hour before they actually needed to leave. He didn't see why Tosh would be any different.

He pulled on the handbrake, slipped the car out of gear and was preparing to lean on the horn when there was a sharp knock on the driver's window.

“Jesus, Tosh! Scare me to death why don't you?” he snapped as he wound down the window. Tosh peered in with a steady smile.

“That would be a little difficult, given your current condition,” she said evenly. Owen flashed her a sharp look, unsure of whether she was teasing or being serious. Teasing wasn't something Tosh usually indulged in, especially with him.

“Are you ready?” he asked figuring he would be safer to let the comment pass unremarked. He figured wrong.

“Clearly, since I'm stood on the pavement outside my flat clutching a dress hanger and an overnight case,” Tosh retorted, rolling her eyes. “You said seven. It's five past. You're late.” She looked at him accusingly. Owen swallowed, even though he had no reason to. It was an automatic reflex. Tosh was in a seriously weird mood. She coughed impatiently and looked pointedly at her full hands.

“Oh, right. Sorry” Owen unfastened the seat belt and leapt from the car, opening the boot. He took Tosh's case from her, stowing it next to his own and then carefully laid the dress hanger flat across the top.

He shut the door of the boot, then stepped round the car to open the door for Tosh.

“Miss Sato,” he said, bowing slightly as he stood slightly to one side, allowing her to climb gracefully into the car.

Tosh nodded regally, “Mr Harper.” She looked at his black suit trousers and white shirt, already crumpled from where it had been crushed under the seat belt. “Are you driving up in your suit?” she asked, her tone laced with disapproval.

Owen looked down at himself in confusion as he shut her door. Climbing back in the driver’s seat, he looked across at her, comfortably dressed in jeans and a figure-hugging t-shirt. It was an outfit far more informal than any she ever wore to the Hub, and far more... thought-provoking. Owen tore his eyes away and looked fixedly at the road.

“Yes, why?” he said.

He was aware of Tosh shaking her head in despair. “Never mind. Men, honestly.” The comment was made to herself rather than him and he wisely chose not to call her on it. With a non-committal grunt, he started the engine and pulled away from the kerb.

\--o0o--

The miles fell away as the car purred up the A449 away from Cardiff. The dual carriageway was quiet this early on a Saturday and Owen floored the accelerator, the speedometer sitting just above ninety miles an hour. It was a fast enough speed that Owen had to keep his eyes fixed to the road ahead, perpetually scanning for the spectre of the traffic police. Even so he was vividly aware that beside him Tosh was watching the lush green scenery roll past in silence.

On the dashboard the comforting diversion of the radio beckoned, a means to fill the silence with news and music, a barrage of trivialities. Anything to deflect the ever more oppressive atmosphere which was becoming heavy enough to crush the air from his lungs. If he'd had air in them in the first place. He reached across to press the power button, then let his hand settle back on the steering wheel.

“Thank you for doing this, Tosh” he said in a low voice, glancing across to her rigid profile.

Tosh turned her head so that she could meet his eyes and her face relaxed into a smile.

“Anytime,” she said easily, pleased that no hint of the apprehension churning her stomach sounded in her voice. “Happy to help.”

Owen winced. The words sounded so false, not the meaning, but the forced nonchalance. In the last few weeks he had hurt her immeasurably, taking her regard and throwing it back cruelly into her face. The words he had said at his flat that day, the day she had arrived with beer and pizza, had been harsh and unforgivable. He had raged against his fate and Tosh had ended up in his sights, all the anger and frustration pouring out of him and over her with the force of a tsunami. And what had she done? Had she railed against him? Had her affection morphed into righteous hate? Had she told him where to shove it, as Gwen would have done? No. She had swallowed the hurt, thoughtfully locked the door to his flat as she left, and told him once again that she loved him.

He'd always known Tosh had a crush on him, practically from his very first day, and it had seemed easy to disregard it, to make fun of it when it suited him. He'd even played on it for his own amusement. And he'd conveniently ignored the truth that had been staring him the face, the truth that had been presented starkly to him in the last few weeks. Tosh had never had a crush on him; her emotions had never been that trite and incidental. From that first day Tosh had loved him completely, with a force of emotion that he could hardly comprehend. Nothing was going to sway her, not his death, and not even his vicious cruelty, it seemed. Ever since the scene in his flat he had been faced with the very real fear that he might have just wasted what could have been the best four years of his life. And now it was too late. He had missed his chance to make Tosh happy and instead, even now, seemed incapable of doing anything other than hurting her even more.

“I'm sorry,” he blurted out suddenly.

“What for?” Tosh said evenly.

“Hurting you. I've been a shit. You didn't deserve all that crap I piled on you the other day. I didn't mean it, I was just...” He faltered into silence, fixing his eyes on the road, his fingers clenched tight on the steering wheel.

“Raging against the machine?” Tosh offered, reaching across and placing an understanding hand on the arm closest to her. “I understand that, Owen. I don't blame you for it. If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else.”

Owen looked across at her. Tosh's eyes were kind, filled with gentle understanding and, as he knew they would be, love.

He shook his head. “No, it wouldn't. It had to be you.” He tried to ignore the swirl of hurt which clouded her eyes. “You were the one who reminded me what I lost.”

Tosh frowned, clearly bewildered.

“I don't understand.”

Owen raised one hand from the steering wheel and ran his long fingers back through his short black hair in frustration as he searched for the right words.

“With the others, when they looked at me, those first few days, there was something in their eyes. Something like wonderment. As though I was a miracle of science, even when they were worried I might have come back wrong. It was like my death had just been an unfortunate blip in my life...” He paused, clearly not happy with his explanation.

“Go on,” Tosh encouraged him softly. “Why was I different?”

Owen gave a bleak smile. “Because when you looked at me all I could see was grief and pain. It was the look I used to see in the eyes of relatives who I'd just told their loved ones were dead, the bleak expression that comes over their face as they realise they've lost someone they love forever.” Beside him he saw Tosh give a start of embarrassment. It was the first time he had even alluded to those two declarations of love. “Your eyes reminded me that my death was real.”

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean to...” Tosh began, her face horrified.

Owen stopped her with a jerking shake of the head. “No. Don't apologise, please. At least you grieved honestly...” He let the sentence hang for a moment, waiting to see if Tosh would say something in reply, but as he glanced across he saw her eyes were fixed on her lap, at her hands which were twisting over and over in agitation. “I shouldn't have taken my anger out on you,” he continued softly, “but I knew you were the one person who would understand. Forgive me?”

There was a long silence, the sound of the tarmac rumbling beneath the turning wheels amplified to a roar in the absence of any other sound save Tosh's shallow breaths. When Owen looked across again, Tosh's hands were still tumbling over and over on her lap and he thought, although he couldn't be sure in the harsh morning light, that there was the glint of tears on her cheeks. Even though he knew it was impossible, he felt his chest tighten. Even in his apology he'd managed to hurt her again.

“You're forgiven.” Tosh's voice was almost inaudible, so soft were her words. She raised her eyes to give him a small forgiving smile to emphasise her words.

Owen felt the band of tension across his chest release in a rush. He hadn't realised how much he had needed to hear those words, or how much he needed Tosh's good opinion.

He returned a warm, grateful smile which drove the last remaining vestiges of doubt and hurt from her eyes.

“So tell me about your family,” Tosh said after a moment. “I think I should know a bit about them...if we're to avoid any awkward moments. We are supposed to be couple, after all.”

Owen, still absorbing the fact that Tosh had forgiven him for his horrendous treatment, was shocked by the rush of pleasure that the idea of him and Tosh being thought of as a couple invoked. He gave a mental sigh of relief as for the first time he was glad he didn't have a blood flow to betray his reaction. He gave a self-conscious cough.

“All right, Amelia...Amy, is my Aunt June's only daughter. She's a couple of years younger than me. My uncle Patrick died about four years ago, not long after Katie...” Owen's expression darkened for a moment, and from the corner of his eye he saw Tosh give his arm a sympathetic squeeze. “Anyway, Amy is marrying this guy called Jamie Westmoor. I've never met him, but Aunt June says he's a nice guy.”

“Will any others from your family be there?” Tosh questioned.

Owen shook his head. “Maybe a couple from my dad's side. June was his sister. She never forgave him for buggering off. None from mum's. There's only Samantha left...” His older sister, Tosh remembered vaguely from his personnel file. “...and she's in New Zealand at the moment. She couldn't make it back,” Owen continued. “Anyway, even if she was there we wouldn't be speaking.”

“Why? Don't you get on?” Tosh asked curiously.

“You could say that,” Owen said shortly. Tosh shuffled uncomfortably in her seat, the terseness of his tone clearly signalling that this was a subject he didn't intend to discuss.

She cleared her throat and said in a bright tone, “So what's our back story?”

Owen shot her a puzzled glance. “What do you mean?”

Tosh rolled her eyes. “I mean, what have you told your aunt about me?” Tosh suddenly wrinkled her brow in consternation. “She does know I'm coming, doesn't she?”

Owen gave a snort of indignation. “Of course, what do you take me for? I told her way back when she first sent the invite...” He stopped dead, a guilty expression settling on his face.

Tosh pressed her lips together, although she wasn't entirely sure whether it was to suppress an angry retort or a snort of laughter. “Hmmm. So, just how long ago did you receive the invitation?”

Owen at least had the grace to look ashamed, she thought, as he said hesitantly, “Eight weeks ago.”

So just before his death then, Tosh calculated quickly. All right, she could forgive him for forgetting about it, given everything that had been going on. Still, she wasn't going to let him get away with it that easily.

“And just exactly when were you planning on asking me?” she said carefully, keeping her eyes fixed straight ahead so as not to let him see the tell-tale twinkle of mischief.

“Ermm...” Owen shifted uncomfortably in his seat, studiously avoiding looking at Tosh. “I got distracted,” he said sheepishly. “I meant to ask straight away, honestly. But then there was the Pharm and it slipped my mind.” He paused, trying to gauge how well his explanation was being received. “I was trying to deal with the whole dead thing, you know,” he finally blurted out defensively.

Tosh couldn't help it, she let out a peal of laughter. Owen sounded so indignant, a recalcitrant schoolboy caught in the act, justifying why he'd been caught behind the bike sheds with Tara Dean and a packet of fags.

Owen flashed a hurt look in Tosh's direction, ready to return a stinging retort, but instead his mouth turned upwards in a reluctant smile. A moment later he was laughing with her, for once grateful that he could no longer produce tears. Otherwise it would be a dead cert they would have ended upside down in the hedgerow bordering the road.

\--o0o--

The dual carriageway gave way to the three lanes of the M50 taking them north towards the M6 and the Peak District. As Tosh's laughter had died, they had settled into a companionable silence, the only sounds being the purr of the car’s engine and occasional snatches of quiet humming as Tosh echoed a favourite song on the radio. In truth, Owen couldn't remember the last time he had felt so relaxed, no, more than that, he felt at peace. Certainly it was the first time since his resurrection that the limitations of his death were not encompassing his entire thoughts. To anyone looking at them, he and Tosh were just a young couple going to a wedding. Perfectly normal.

“Owen?” Tosh broke the silence and his reverie. “Can we stop at the next services? There's some a mile ahead.”

“Why?” Owen glanced at his watch, they still had a good hour to go and time was pushing on.

Tosh rolled her eyes and looked at him pointedly. “Just because you no longer need to take care of bodily functions doesn't mean the rest of us don't have to!” She bit her bottom lip. “I'll only be a minute.”

Owen grinned apologetically. “Sorry.” Normal? Who was he kidding?

Owen indicated and pulled into the far left hand lane, slowing the car until it could pull round the sharp curve of the approaching slip road safely.

“Owen, are we going straight to the church?” Tosh asked, eyeing the clock warily. It had taken them longer to get through Wales than they had planned and a set of the almost inevitable roadworks on the M6 had further hampered their progress.

“I think we'll have to,” Owen admitted. “I was hoping we could go to the hotel first and get checked in so we could dump the bags but I don't think there'll be time now.” As he spoke he eased the car into a car parking space close to the entrance to the building housing the almost obligatory Marks and Spencer's food outlet and Costa franchise.

Tosh tapped her bottom lip thoughtfully. “OK, I'll have to get changed here then. It's only another hour, isn't it?”

Owen nodded.

“I shouldn't get too creased then. Give me ten minutes.”

Owen harrumphed. Ten minutes. Yeah right, he thought with an inward smirk, if she's less than half an hour he'd eat his very expensive silk tie. If he could eat, that was.

Tosh got out and stepping round the rear of the car opened the boot. She lifted out a garment bag and, after scrabbling in the bowels of the boot for a moment, pulled out a small vanity case. Slamming the boot, she vanished inside the building with a cheery smile at Owen. Owen made a careful note of the time. Ten fifty. Even though he no longer required sleep, he followed the tradition of a million men before him waiting in a car for a woman, and leaning his head against the headrest, closed his eyes and prepared for a long wait.

Exactly nine minutes and thirty seconds later there was a tap on the driver's window. His head jerked up in alarm and he looked to see beyond the glass, incredibly, Tosh's face smiling serenely at him. He wound down the window.

“So, will I do?” Tosh asked stepping back, twirling slowly on the spot.

If Owen had needed to breathe, he was convinced he would have forgotten how to. As it was, he stared at her, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, and utterly speechless. This was a Tosh he had never seen before. Gone were the restrained outfits she usual adopted, the muted colours and jersey fabrics which, even though smart and business-like, had always struck Owen as a touch, well, frumpy. There was nothing frumpy about the outfit currently twirling in front of him. Embracing her Eastern roots, she had changed into an oriental style top and skirt in Shantung silk, both a rich, dark, ruby red, highlighted in places with delicate traces of embroidery in jet black and snatches of silver thread. The short-sleeved top was exquisitely tailored, defining the contours of her body as if moulded to her, just skimming the top of her hips. It overlaid a calf-length, pencil-slim skirt lined with a jet-black material that matched the embroidery visible where a long side slit that ran upwards from the hem to mid-thigh. Also visible through the slit was a long expanse of Tosh's smooth skinned legs, legs which ended in ludicrously high matching heels, this time in black silk with ruby embroidery. It should have looked over-the-top, Owen thought, gulping in astonishment. It could so easily have descended into a parody of a geisha or an eastern nightclub hostess, but on Tosh the dark ruby red silk was elegant. It – no, she - was stunning. And where the hell had she been hiding those legs the last four years?

Owen couldn't help it. He pursed his lips to give a long low whistle. Then, realising it was no longer an option, he contented himself with raising his eyebrows in overt admiration.

Tosh beamed. “A good enough distraction?” she asked guilelessly, inwardly glowing at Owen's obvious approval.

“Oh, yeah,” Owen murmured, unable to tear his eyes away. It was a terrible cliché, he knew, but it was as though he were seeing her for the first time. Really seeing her, not the image she was so careful to project in the Hub, hiding her loneliness behind her brains and those glasses forever perched on her nose. Because the woman in front of him was not Tosh the genius, Tosh the work colleague with the slightly embarrassing crush, or even Tosh the friend. This was Toshiko Sato, a veritable siren, who just happened to be hopelessly in love with him.

And then the questions that had been nudging at the corners of his mind all day were there, leaping to the front in sharp focus, unbidden. How can I have been such a blind fool? Why didn't I see? What have I missed? The answers practically shouted into his mind, devastating in their consequences. Suddenly the next twenty-four hours of pretence loomed large in front of him. Oh, God, he thought with something close to despair, what the hell have I done?


	2. Chapter 2

The car crested the hill, the road dropping away almost immediately, snaking its way down a steep incline into a small valley. Elephant-grey rocky crags fell sharply from either side, giving way at the base to large angular boulders, mounds of purple heather and a stony scree partially obscured by rich green ferns. In the base of the valley tall trees, their leaves just starting to give way from rich deep green to russet reds, ran in a broad swathe towards a cluster of stone buildings nestled at the far end. Dwarfing them, the dark square outline of a church tower erupted from the green canopy. As Owen carefully manoeuvred the car down the narrow turns of the single-track road hugging the hillside, Tosh caught a glimpse of white water cascading down a deep cleft in the hillside in a series of perfect miniature waterfalls before disappearing underground through a fissure in the rocky gutter bordering the cliff side of the road.

“It's beautiful,” Tosh breathed with a rapturous smile as she took in the vista before her. “A hidden valley.”

Owen took his eyes from the narrow road for a moment to assess the view. Tosh was right, it was breathtaking.

“Amy always did have good taste,” he commented wryly, returning his attention to the road. It was a fair bet that the valley was cut off from the outside world after the slightest snow shower. He sent a quick message of thanks skywards that it was only early September. “Aunt June told me Jamie was born here. His parents still live in the village. A large stone house set away from the main village.” He scanned the approaching village, still some way below them. “That one, I guess.” He lifted his bandaged hand from the steering wheel, pointing to the only house standing apart from the cluster of buildings.

“I don't blame her for wanting to get married here,” Tosh said in a quiet voice. “It's like a fairy-tale.” There was a catch in her voice which made Owen look across sideways. Tosh's expression was wistful, her eyes suspiciously bright. He looked away uncomfortably.

“I never saw you as a fairy-tale wedding kind of girl, Tosh,” he covered rapidly, immediately berating himself for his cruel tactlessness as she flashed a contemptuous glare at him from beneath dark lashes.

“You never see me at all,” she retorted bitterly, lowering her eyes, unable to believe she'd actually just said that out loud. She was a fool. They'd just got comfortable again and here she was stirring up things best left forgotten.

“I'm sorry,” she said softly after a moment. “That wasn't fair. It's just...well...fairy-tale weddings don't come as part of the Torchwood package.” She shrugged as if it was of no matter, but her eyes were forlorn.

Owen laid an understanding hand on her arm and squeezed gently.

“Gwen got one,” he countered encouragingly. “It can happen.” The vision of Tosh walking down the aisle, an ethereal white dress floating around her, took root in his mind. Then his mind completed the picture, a handsome, smiling man waiting with a smile and a gold ring, and he felt a twist of numbing pain. He wasn't sure he could watch that. But she deserved to be happy. She deserved the fairy-tale. She deserved a kind, loving husband. And he knew she sure as hell wouldn't find it with him.

Tosh gave an unladylike snort of laughter, snapping him back to attention. “You were at the same wedding as me? Weren't you? A fairy-tale complete with an alien pregnancy and a shape-shifting, man-eating Nostrovite. I could be wrong but I'm guessing it wasn't Gwen's idea of a dream wedding.”

Owen gave a reluctant chuckle. “OK, point taken,” he said, nodding. “Still, Tosh, you can't let Torchwood and this life stop you. If you see a chance for the fairy-tale, you grab it with both hands and screw Torchwood.” He meant it, he really did, but he couldn't ignore the insidious little voice whispering that he could have been part of that fairy-tale if he hadn't been such a blind fool.

Before Tosh could even think how to answer Owen's startling pronouncement, he pulled the car up on a grass verge a little way down the lane from the church. The narrow road was lined on one side with a parade of cars, all makes and models, but Tosh noticed that a fair proportion were high-end classy cars, Mercs and Beamers and, if she wasn't mistaken, a glossy black Aston Martin DB9, which Owen was observing with envious eyes. This had every hallmark of a seriously posh wedding. She looked down at her outfit in concern. Had she gone over the top? Yes, she wanted to be the distraction Owen needed, but she had no desire to make a fool of herself.

Owen caught her anxious glance. “Tosh. You look amazing. Guys out there will be falling over themselves to be introduced to you.”

Tosh gave him a grateful smile but shook her head dismissively. “I'm already taken, remember.”

For an instant Owen looked confused, and to Tosh's wonderment positively defeated, then, as he remembered their pretence, he gave a rueful smile and nodded. Climbing from the car, he straightened his shirt and shrugged on his suit jacket, grateful that he'd eventually taken Tosh's advice not to wear it in the car. He was only moderately crumpled, he saw, checking his reflection in the car windows. Stepping round the car, he opened the passenger door, holding out a helping hand to Tosh. She placed her fingers lightly in his and eased herself from the car, brushing shallow creases from the fabric of her skirt and blouse. To Owen's eyes she looked as perfect as the moment she'd twirled in front of him in the service station car park.

He crooked one arm in her direction. “Shall we?”

Tosh took his arm and smiled sunnily at him. “The wedding, scene 1, take 1,” she joked as they set off up the lane towards the church.

\--o0o--

“Owen, love. I'm so glad you were able to come.” A short blonde-haired woman in her early sixties grabbed Owen by the shoulders before he could respond and pulled him in close, laying a smacking kiss on his cheek. She wrinkled her nose, her angular cheekbones and jawline proclaiming her to be one of Owen's relations. “You're frozen, get into the hotel and warm up.” She released him, taking a step back so she could look him up and down. “What on earth have you done to your hand?”

They were stood outside a country house hotel, a buttery-coloured stone Georgian residence set in extensive private grounds located in the next valley to the little church where less than an hour ago Amy and Jamie had pledged their troth in a traditional ceremony which had brought tears to Tosh's eyes and sent Owen’s thoughts scurrying in directions he preferred not to think about.

“Hello, June,” Owen said his face creasing in a sheepish grin. “I knew you would berate me until my dying day if I didn't come.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tosh wince at his wording. “You and Amy,” he corrected. “I figured I'd save myself some grief.”

June smiled fondly. “And the hand?” she pressed, genuine concern on her angular features.

“Broke two fingers playing footie with the lads,” Owen lied smoothly. “Last Tuesday. Don't worry, they're mending just fine.”

“And this must be...?” Jane said turning a friendly smile on Toshiko.

Owen reached an arm around Tosh's waist pulling her close to his side.

“June, this is Toshiko Sato. Tosh, this is my Auntie June, the greatest woman in the world, bar none...well, maybe one.” Owen leaned across and placed a chaste kiss on Tosh's cheek.

Tosh ignored the shiver of pleasure that the kiss sent careering down her spine and held out a hand. “Owen has talked about you a lot. It's nice to finally meet the legend.”

“Legend? Owen, you'll make me blush.” June lowered her eyes in embarrassment, taking Tosh's proffered hand and shaking it lightly.

“I call them as I see them,” Owen said seriously. “June Thomas, legend in her own lifetime.”

“Cheeky sod,” June retorted, tweaking a lock of Owen's hair as she used to do when he was a boy. “Toshiko, it's a real pleasure.”

“Call me Tosh, please. Toshiko always makes me think I'm in trouble.” Tosh smiled. “I'll leave you two alone to catch up. I know it's been a while.” She ignored Owen’s panicked eye rolling and with a final smile stepped past June and up the stairs into the hotel. Owen's eyes followed her up the stairs, watching intently until the final flash of ruby silk had disappeared into the dim interior.

“You've got other people to speak to,” Owen said rapidly, looking about him for an escape. “We can catch up later.”

June nodded knowingly, then pinned him with speculative eyes. “I can understand why you don't want to let her out of your sight. She's stunning. Is it serious?”

Owen looked momentarily taken aback. It was on his lips to deny it. After all, it didn't matter if he admitted that it was a new relationship, it wasn't as if his aunt would ever have the opportunity to meet Tosh again. But he hated lying to his aunt, he always had, even as a child. Back then she had always known when he was telling a lie, even if it was to spare her feelings, like when she asked if his mother was drunk that day. He lied better now but it still produced that twisting knot of guilt in his chest.

“Yeah, it is,” he said finally. “She's...” He trailed off, unwilling to put his feelings into words, irrevocably out there. June felt no such compunction.

“The one?” she finished, looking at him for confirmation. He nodded slowly. “I'm so glad, sweetheart. It's been too long since Katie. I was worried about you.” She placed a hand on his arm and squeezed it tight. Owen wished with all his soul he could feel it.

“It's a shame Samantha couldn't make it,” June said after a moment. She saw Owen's face harden and shook her head sadly. “You really should talk to her. She needs you.”

“Everything she needs she can find in a bottle of Bombay Sapphire. The last time we spoke she barely knew who I was,” Owen said coldly. He couldn't forgive Sam for following in her mother's footsteps, not when she was one of the few people who had known and understood the extent of the suffering Owen had been subjected to as a child.

“Katie was her best friend, Owen, don't forget that. When she died, Sam lost her best friend and her brother in one day.”

Owen's dark eyes met June's accusing pale blue ones. “I don't know what you mean,” he said quietly.

“When Katie died you changed. All of a sudden you had a new job you wouldn't speak about and shut us all out, Sam included. She didn't know where to turn.”

“So she turned to the bottle? Great choice,” Owen commented sarcastically. “It's no excuse. You didn't see me getting slammed day and night.” He guiltily pushed hazy, alcohol-dimmed, half-memories of countless nights spent in bed with nameless, faceless women aside.

“We didn't see you at all!” June retorted. “Do you realise I've only seen you once since Katie's funeral, and that was the day we buried Patrick.” Owen shuffled uncomfortably on the spot, his lips forming an automatic apology and plea for forgiveness, but June raised her hand to stay his words.

“It doesn't matter, Owen, I understand that that was your way of dealing with what happened. But Sam isn't as strong as you, she couldn't handle losing both of you like that. Please, for me, promise me you'll try to speak to her. If anyone can bring her back from whatever dark place she's in right now, it's her little brother.”

Owen could have laughed out loud at the irony of it. How could he bring someone back from the brink? But hadn't he done just that, on a rooftop, not so very long ago? And that had been for a complete stranger. Sam was his own flesh and blood. Was he really going to let his mother destroy her too?

“Alright,” he said, shaking his head in surrender, “I'll call her when I get home. I can't promise anything though. She's got to want to talk to me too.”

“That's all I'm asking, sweetheart,” June said softly.

Impulsively Owen leaned forward, enfolding his aunt in a hug, something he had not done since he was a child.

“Love you,” he whispered so low that only she could hear.

“Love you too, sweetheart. Now...” she extricated herself from his grasp and surreptitiously wiped away a tear, “...you go find that lovely girl before your cousin Jasper lays eyes on her.” Without waiting for a reply she turned to greet the next guest. Owen gave her a final fond smile and walked up the stairs as quickly as dignity would allow.

\--o0o--

In the hotel lobby, a knot of young men were crowded about a somewhat bewildered Tosh. She'd expected attention dressed as she was. After all, wasn’t that the whole point? But the bevy of eager young men vying for her attention was a whole new, and not entirely unwelcome, experience.

“Hand's off, Jasper. She's taken.” Owen's strident tones cut into the babble of voices somewhere behind her and the young man to her left, a dark-haired handsome twenty-something, fell back with a sudden scowl to allow Owen to step in by her side, a possessive arm sliding across her back.

“How come you always get the stunning ones, Owen?” the young man, obviously the warned-off Jasper, said with a touch of bitterness. “Rat-face.” The insult was loosely tossed out. Tosh tensed, expecting Owen to react with his usual outburst of temper; he really couldn't afford to break any more fingers.

To her surprise Owen grinned. “Pretty boy,” he retorted. Jasper's face broke into a similar wide grin. Obviously this trade of insults was the standard form of greeting in the Harper clan.

“Tosh, this reprobate is my cousin Jasper. On my dad's side,” he clarified, seeing the confusion on Tosh's face. They never had finished the whole back story conversation.

Tosh smiled politely, but impersonally at Jasper. “Nice to meet you, Jasper.” She turned deliberately adoring eyes at Owen. It wasn't difficult. “Owen, didn't you say something about getting us checked in before the reception starts? We do have half an hour,” she purred.

She saw the startled glances from Jasper and the other men still crowding around them. Owen's smile was smug. His arm still fixed about her shoulders, he steered her through the throng of people towards the reception desk, murmuring when they were out of earshot, “Nice one, Tosh. That should put Jasper and the other sharks in their place.”

\--o0o--

The room was stunning. Tosh had never stayed in a room like it. Decorated in muted greens and creams, high ceilings bordered with fine plaster architrave, the crowning glory was a beautiful cut glass chandelier, delicate droplets of crystal cascading about a central column of gilt metal, refracting the light from a dozen slim candle bulbs into a myriad of rainbows on the pale walls. The furniture was period, although Tosh was in no doubt that they would be reproductions; the genuine articles would have been priceless. A fine spindle legged bureau sat in one corner. Two tall walnut armoires, which Tosh couldn't bring herself to call wardrobes, stood imposingly on opposite sides of the room, their doors polished to a high sheen. Next to the door stood a chest of drawers flanked on either side by a cupboard, one of which Tosh guessed would contain the slightly incongruous note provided by the obligatory mini-bar. To the left a door led though into a small but perfectly appointed en-suite.

There was only one problem with the room and it screamed at Tosh from the moment she pushed open the door. “There's only one bed,” she stammered, immediately feeling foolish.

Owen stepped in after her and dropped the two overnight bags he was carrying onto the floor. He gave Tosh an apologetic, and what he hoped appeared to be, an unconcerned shrug.

“There were no twin rooms left. Besides, I thought it might look a little odd. You don't have to worry though. It's not as if I actually sleep. I'll...go for a walk or something.” Damn right he would. There was no way he was going to even sit in the same room as Tosh when she was sleeping only a few feet away. Especially in that bed, a vast white expanse of pristine white cotton sheets atop a deep mattress topped by a downy comforter, made for something more than sleeping.

Tosh coloured and she busied herself with lifting her bag onto the high bed, unzipping the top and lifting out a pair of faded purple brushed-cotton pyjamas, obviously much worn. Embarrassed, she stuffed them beneath one of the plump duck-down pillows. Those pyjamas were an indictment of her life, she thought sadly, always sleeping alone, swapping the warmth of a lover’s arms for the childish comfort of flannel pyjamas.

 She glanced over her shoulder to see whether Owen had seen the sad sight, but he was stood in the bay window between two high backed armchairs, looking out over the formal gardens laid out below. His face was still, almost desolate. Maybe coming to this wedding hadn't been a good idea, Tosh mused sadly, too vivid a reminder of what he had lost. Not realising how close and yet how far she was from the truth, she stepped across the room to lay a hand on his arm.

“Are you alright?” she asked softly, her voice filled with gentle concern. Owen looked up, startled. Of course, she realised belatedly, he hadn't felt her hand and had clearly been too absorbed in his thoughts to hear her approach. “We don't have to go down if you don't want to.”

And stay here, alone with Tosh, berating himself for all his missed opportunities? He nearly groaned aloud.

Instead he shook his head. “No, it's fine. We should go. I promised you a slap up meal.” His mouth twisted in what he hoped was an approximation of his old carefree smile. As he spoke, he stepped towards the door, swinging it wide and waving Tosh through before him.

Tosh frowned briefly, not fooled for an instant by the mockery of a smile on his lips, but wordlessly stepped through the door. He wasn't alright. This was a torture for him, seeing life lived and knowing he could never be fully part of it again. But she couldn't fix it, as much as she wanted to. All she could do was play the role she'd been assigned and steel herself for the storm when, just as he had in his flat, he raged against the machine once more.


	3. Chapter 3

The reception passed uneventfully. Tosh and Owen passed down the receiving line, Owen's hand leaving a burning brand on her lower back as he steered her through the throngs of people. Tosh shook hands, smiled until her face hurt, and murmured meaningless pleasantries to all. She congratulated the bride and groom, Owen introducing her to the radiant Amelia as 'my wondrous girlfriend Tosh' with such a meaningful, love-filled look that her heart nearly gave out. With the receiving line safely behind them, they found their seats at one of the round tables only a stone’s throw from the long top table, as befitted Owen's family status. The table filled up with couples similar in age to Tosh and Owen, friendly introductions revealing them to be relatives of Jamie. Easy, unremarkable conversation flowed around the table and Tosh found that she was actually enjoying hearing about simple lives not complicated by aliens and secret organisations. When it came to their turn they trotted out the standard back story of Owen being a medical consultant to a technology company Tosh worked for that specialised in medical advancements. They had found that it was just interesting enough to be a conversation piece, without anyone really understanding or asking in detail what the job entailed.

The conversation faltered as the gourmet dinner was served. Owen made a great show of feeding Tosh from his own plate, so no-one remarked when his plate went back empty and Tosh's appeared hardly touched. After all, as Jasper told him later in the evening, it's a well-known fact that exotic women have the appetites of sparrows. The speeches and toasts were short and sweet and the best man even managed to raise a chuckle from Jamie's sour faced mother. At each toast Owen would take a sip of his champagne, just enough to wet the inside of his mouth. Beyond that he kept the drinks to a minimum, glad that his damaged hand gave him the age old excuse of being on antibiotics. Still, Tosh was having to work full time to make sure both sets of drinks were going down at an acceptable rate. By the time the DJ had taken his place behind the bank of decks and flashing lights Tosh was feeling distinctly light-headed. One by one her bevy of admirers approached begging a dance, and each time she turned them away with a polite shake of her head, her eyes fixed adoringly on Owen. And as each one departed the table with a resigned shrug of regret, Owen felt a flush of smug possessiveness. He hadn't liked the surge of jealousy he'd felt when he had found Tosh talking to Jasper. That would be nothing to what he would feel if his cousin actually claimed a dance with her. Jasper clearly was possessed with more sense than Owen gave him credit for as he kept his distance the entire evening.

\--o0o--

The lights dimmed, signalling the last dance of the evening. The obligatory slow dance. One by one couples took to the floor, circling unsteadily as the effects of the freely flowing wine became apparent. Finally only Tosh and Owen remained seated at the tables skirting the dance floor. Tosh looked sideways at Owen, whose gaze was fixed unwaveringly on the dance floor. He must have been aware of her scrutiny though as, after a moment, he turned to face her.

“I used to like a dance,” he said, rather wistfully. “Not this slow mooching garbage, something with...”

“A beat?” Tosh finished for him smiling.

He smiled crookedly back. “Yeah, a beat.”

“You can still dance,” she reminded him. She took a deep breath. “You could dance with me. If you could stand this slow mooching garbage, that is?”

Owen blinked owlishly, clearly taken aback.

Tosh coloured and shrank back in her seat, mumbling, “Forget it. It's a stupid idea.”

“No...” he said slowly. “It isn't.” He stood up until he was towering imposingly above her. “Miss Sato, would you do me the honour of taking to the floor with me?” he said formally, offering her his bandaged hand, spoiling the grand effect with a very cheeky wink.

“Mr Harper, I would be delighted,” Tosh replied, taking his hand and standing up, her high heels bringing her to almost his height.

They stepped onto the dance floor, Owen circling her waist with his free hand, pulling her close to him, trapping their clasped hands between them. Without thinking Tosh draped her free hand around his neck and they began to circle slowly to the music. After a few seconds Tosh rested her cheek on Owen's chest

It was a dance, Tosh told herself hazily. Just a dance to still wagging tongues, and yet... she burned. It didn't matter that Owen's hand was cold on her back through the thin silk of her blouse or that his chest was unmoving beneath her cheek, devoid of breath. The music swelled around them, something trite, sentimental and instantly forgettable, but Tosh barely heard it. Clichéd as it might be, she felt that she had come home at last. That circled within Owen's arms was the only place she would ever need to be. Unconsciously she tightened her clasp about his neck, feeling him start in surprise. But he didn't pull away.

Owen froze as Tosh tightened her grip around his neck, pulling him still closer. He should pull away, put a stop to this before it got any more out of control. He'd been foolish to ask her to dance, to give her hope where there was none. But God help him, he'd wanted to dance with her. He'd wanted to hold her as he was doing now, even though there was no sensation. For just a few precious minutes he wanted to dance with Tosh as though he were whole. And so he stayed exactly where he was.

\--o0o--

The music stopped, almost abruptly. There was a scattering of applause as people began to make their way off the dance floor. He became aware that Tosh had raised her head and pulled away just a fraction, dislodging his arm, so she could look up into his face. And it was as though all her Christmases had come at once, her dark eyes smoky, her porcelain complexion flushed with combined effects of alcohol and desire, her body relaxed and inviting.

“Tosh,” he said warningly, stepping back until they were a good foot apart. With a sudden start of realisation, Tosh wordlessly turned and ran, heels clattering on the parquet floor, past the bemused looking DJ and out of the door.

Owen sighed, running his hand though his hair. He'd hurt her again, despite all his avowals not to. And that was something he couldn't live with.

\--o0o--

Tosh flew through the lobby of the hotel as though a pack of Weevils were on her heels, her mind whirring. Could she have made a bigger fool of herself? All that time she'd spent trying to convince Owen that her declarations of love had been nothing but careless last words, and now one dance and a couple of glasses of wine and she had just as good as thrown herself at him again. She would never learn. She'd have to face him. She knew that. But she needed some time first, to collect her thoughts and try and find some excuse for her behaviour. The wine. She could blame the wine. Everyone knew you couldn't be held responsible for what you did under the influence. And she could really use another drink right now. After all, that's what mini bars were for.

That thought propelled her all the way to the double room Owen had booked for them. As she crashed through the doorway and was faced with the vast double bed, she felt a wave of anger. And what the hell had Owen been thinking, booking a double room? Couldn't he at least have tried to get a twin and damn the rumours? She pushed the door closed behind her, letting it slam into the frame with a satisfyingly loud bang, and kicked off her shoes angrily. The black silk high-heeled shoes sailed over the bed landing on the other side with a loud thump. For a brief moment Tosh felt a twinge of regret for the poor people in the room below, but almost instantly it was replaced by a burning desire for more alcohol. She wanted to blot this night out of her memory forever.

Crossing to the cupboard she hoped contained the mini bar, she pulled open the door, giving a grunt of satisfaction as she was proved right. She looked inside, studying the contents critically. With a grim smile she pulled out a small bottle of wine and miniatures bottle of vodka and brandy. That would do for starters. She wrenched open the screw top of the miniature and tipped the vodka down her throat, coughing as the fiery liquid burnt its way down. The miniature of brandy followed swiftly. She discarded the empty miniatures and opened the bottle of red wine, taking a long swig.

“Tosh, don't.” Owen's words, though quiet, stopped her dead. She hadn't heard him come in, and now he stood in the open doorway, his black suit stark against the white of the hotel corridor beyond. He stepped further into the room, shutting the door carefully behind him.

“What do you care?” she spat at him, eyes flashing.

“I care, Tosh. I know you won't believe me but I care what happens to you and this is my fault.”

“How can it be your fault?” Tosh laughed bitterly. “It was me who threw myself at you down there.”

“We danced. It was hardly throwing yourself at me,” Owen said gently. “But...I knew how you felt about me. I shouldn't have encouraged you.”

“So why did you?” Tosh pressed, taking another swig of the red wine, draining the bottle. “If my attentions are so unwanted, why did you ask me to dance?”

Owen swallowed. And there it was. The real crux of the matter. Why had he asked her to dance?

“Come on, Owen,” Tosh goaded him. “I know I'm not your type. You've told me often enough. So what sick little game was going on in your head down there? Was it pity? Did you look at me and think, poor little Tosh, no one loves her, I guess I can spare one little dance?” Her eyes filled with tears and her voice fractured. She hugged herself, dropping her head. “Well, Owen Harper, I don't need your pity.”

“It wasn't pity!” Owen yelled suddenly, unable to stand the look of betrayal in Tosh's eyes. “I wanted to dance with you because I realised today that I'm in love with you and I wanted one dance, just one fucking dance, before I have to face reality!”

The air stilled. The silence was absolute. Tosh stared at him open-mouthed. “What?” she said finally, haltingly. “What did you say?”

Owen sat down on the edge of the bed burying his head in his hands. He'd just made a bad situation a million times worse. He sighed in defeat.

“I said I love you. And I should have realised it a long time ago.” He raised his head and his eyes were bleak. “And now it's too late.”

“It's not too late,” Tosh protested helplessly, sitting on the bed beside him and wishing that the room wouldn't spin quite so alarmingly. “Why is it too late?”

Owen gave a short mirthless laugh. “If you hadn't noticed, Tosh, I'm dead. It puts rather a dampener on your love life.” He lifted one hand and stroked her cheek. “I can't feel that, Tosh. I know my skin is touching yours but only because my eyes tell me it is. Downstairs I held you in my arms and I couldn't feel anything at all. And I wanted to. Wanted to so much it hurt. But I have to accept it. I'm nothing more than a husk, a walking, talking husk of a man. And you deserve so much more, Tosh. You deserve someone who knows how your skin feels under his fingertips. Who can feel your lips on his. Jesus, someone who can make love to you. I can't do any of those things.”

Tosh gave a single sob, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking with distress.

“Tosh, please don't,” Owen pleaded, instinctively placing one arm around her shoulder.

She raised her head and looked at him, eyes swimming. “I don't need any of that,” she sobbed. “I just need you.” Suddenly she leant forward, pushing her lips to his in a desperate kiss.

And he tried to remain unmoved. It should have been easy; there was no sensation, no connection between his lips and his brain, nothing to trigger a physical response. But even though his body was incapable of automatically responding to Tosh's caress, his mind only knew he wanted to kiss her back. A groan of despair escaped his lips as he brought his hands up to cup her face and let his mind take over, forcefully returning the pressure, imagining the sweet taste of her, the softness of her skin beneath his fingertips.

A breath that could have been his name echoed in his ears and he instinctively tightened his hold, sliding one hand up into the tresses of Tosh's brown hair, which he knew would be silken to the touch, to support the back of her head. His other hand snaked around her back, grabbing at the silk of her blouse, pulling it upwards until he gained access to the skin beneath, no doubt heated with desire.

Tosh shivered. He froze, lifting his lips from hers.

“Your hands are cold,” she giggled, her words unguarded from alcohol and desire. And then she registered the horror in his eyes, the deliberate withdrawal of his hands from her skin, and the giggle died in her throat. The enormity of her words rose up, a rock lodging just beneath her breastbone, choking her.

She raised frantic eyes to meet his. “I didn't mean it like that,” she said desperately, grabbing his hand. “I'm sorry. Please, Owen. Forget what I said. Please.”

Owen shook his head. He stood up, retreating across the room before sitting in one of the high backed chairs.

“I can't, can I, Tosh?” His voice was low and calm and...broken. He held up his hands in front of his face, studying them critically. “Because it's true. These are cold, dead flesh, and that's all they'll ever be. The fact that they can move and touch and hold, that's just a freakish accident. We're unnatural, these hands and I. I don't have the right to touch you with them. Not like that.”

Tosh jumped to her feet, moving towards Owen, hands outstretched ready to grasp his, but he pulled them sharply back into his body, denying her contact.

“And if I give you that right?” she countered, applying the only attack she knew, cold, undeniable logic. “Don't I get a choice? Because I chose you a long time ago, Owen Harper. Do you honestly think a little thing like you being dead is going to change that? Why do I have to be punished because you took so bloody long to come to your senses?”

As she spoke, she stood before him, hands balled into fists, planted on her hips. A spitting firebrand with tousled hair and smudged make-up. A rare and beautiful sight. It was almost enough to break Owen's resolve. He pressed into the back of the chair, willing himself to remain still.

Taking a deep, and, he reminded himself bitterly, totally unnecessary, breath, he said coldly, “No, you don't get a choice. Because I might be a bastard, in fact I know I'm a bastard, I've prided myself on it, but even I'm not enough of a bastard to let you commit necrophilia.”

The word shattered the silence like a thunderclap. Tosh's eyes opened wide, her fire extinguished in an instant. She unclenched her fists, letting her hands fall unheeded to her side. “It isn't....,” she began in a horrified whisper. “It wouldn't be...that.”

“Making love to a dead body, isn't that what you were about to do? Last time I checked that was the definition of necro...”

“Stop it!” she shouted frantically, cutting him off. “Don't say that word. You're not dead.”

“Yes, Tosh. I am,” Owen said gently, aching to stand up and comfort her. “In all the ways that matter I'm a dead man.”

“I don't care.” No argument now, just desperation.

“But I do. I'm not prepared to let you sacrifice yourself for a dead man.” Owen's tone was implacable, his eyes desolate but resolute.

There was silence. Owen could feel the crushing weight of his words echoing round and round the room, swelling, amplified until the silent words were deafening.

“What are we going to do?” Tosh's whispered words were barely audible. “How do we live now? I can't just pretend...” She trailed off, her hands fluttering helplessly by her sides as though their stillness would be unbearable. They reminded Owen of a bird’s wings, in the moment after the creature had been clipped by a car, when, sensing its death, it tries to flee to safety. Death throes. Only here, it was Tosh's heart that was dying while her body continued on, undamaged, destined to become a vessel for an empty soul. He couldn't stand by and watch that happen.

“I don't know,” he whispered back. “We'll find a way.”

“How?” Tosh's cry was desolate. “Leave Torchwood? That's not an option, is it? Jack needs us.” Her swimming eyes were wild, almost incoherent.

“Jack would manage,” Owen said softly. “He would understand, if we told him...”

“No!” Tosh almost shouted with panic. “You can't tell him. He'd force me to go. I can't go. I can't. I can't.” The words were repeated over and over again, higher and higher, tinged with more than despair. It was fear, Owen realised, Tosh was terrified. As she spoke she began to rock forwards and backwards in time to the words, her whole body shaking. He looked down at his hands, the ones that only minutes before he'd snatched away from Tosh, vowing never to lay them on her again, and grabbed Tosh by the shoulders, enfolding her in a crushing embrace, somehow feeling the tremors that were wracking her body.

Owen wanted to murmur words of comfort but he didn't seem to be able to bring those words into being. All he could do was hold her tight and wonder what had made her so afraid.

“Tosh, what are you scared of?” he said, forcing his voice to be calm and encouraging. “Why can't you leave Torchwood?”

Her head was buried against his chest. She seemed somehow smaller in his arms, a frightened child hiding from the nightmares. Her head shook in denial.

“Please tell me, Tosh. This is more than what's happened tonight. Why can't you tell me?”

Muffled words, punctuated by heaving sobs, rose to his ears. “I promised Jack.”

Owen swore under his breath as the world dropped into focus. Tosh's loyalty to Jack was unshakable. It wasn't the hero worship that Gwen indulged in, or even the unquestioning love that Ianto seemed prepared to bestow on their great leader. Tosh looked at Jack with the same kind of gratitude that he did, the gratitude of a life saved. Why had he never noticed that before? Something else that in his selfishness he'd been blind to. Jack had saved him after Katie's death, taking a grieving young man, raging at the unfairness of the world, and given him purpose. Was that what he had done for Tosh, taken an aimless young woman and given her purpose, or had his rescue been more literal.

“Jack saved you, didn't he? When he brought you into Torchwood,” he said slowly. “You think you owe him...but whatever you promised back then, I don't think he'd expect you keep it. Not if he knew how scared you were. Why did you join Torchwood, Tosh? What were you running from that's got you so scared to leave. Please, I need to know.”

There was silence, the now quiet sobs and shaking breaths the only sounds in the room. The bulbs in the chandelier above flooded the room with harsh light that hurt Owen's eyes. Tosh looked up, her face ghostly white in the brightness. She pulled back out of his arms so she could look straight into his eyes.

“I was a terrorist.” Tosh's stark words couldn't have shocked Owen more. He almost recoiled in a wave of surprise and unbidden disgust, but common sense rushed in hard on its heels. It was impossible. The Tosh he knew would never...

“I stole plans...for an advanced weapon,” Tosh continued in the same stark tones. “I made a working prototype and gave it to someone I knew would use it to harm innocent people.”

“That doesn't make you a terrorist,” Owen said automatically, stunned at her confession.

“A traitor then.” There was a hideous twisted smile on Tosh's lips. “U.N.I.T. doesn't really make the distinction.”

“You were captured.” It wasn't a question.

“U.N.I.T. raided the house where I was making the hand-over. They arrested me, tossed me in a three-by-eight foot cell and threw away the key. By rights I should still be there. I would be if it wasn't for Jack.”

“Why?” Owen interrupted.

“Why what? Why did Jack save me?” Tosh shrugged, preparing to continue.

“No. Why did you do it? Build a weapon? Betray your country?” He couldn't help it; his voice was cold, disapproving. Whatever he'd thought, he could never have dreamed this....this betrayal of all he held true. That Tosh could be a traitor, willing to sacrifice innocent souls to...what, indulge her curiosity in technology. It was beyond imagining.

Another twisted little smile turned Owen's stomach.

“They had my mother. They would have killed her if I hadn't done as they asked. Betraying my country was a small price to pay.”

Owen felt the tight band of betrayal around his chest ease in an instant. “You didn't have a choice. You were a victim, surely you told U.N.I.T,” he said with relief.

“Like I said, U.N.I.T. doesn't really make the distinction. It didn't matter why, only that I had. I'm not really sure how long they kept me in that cell, alone, not even allowing me news of my mother. I think I was going slowly insane. Then one day, in walked Jack. It seems he was impressed with the way I'd built the prototype. It seems the plans were flawed, it should never have worked. Anyway, he offered me a choice. Work for Torchwood or stay incarcerated until the day I died. It didn't take a lot of thinking about. I'm not allowed to contact my mother directly but I can at least keep an eye on her from afar now. Make sure she's alright. As long as I work for Torchwood I'm safe, U.N.I.T. can't touch me. But if I leave...I'll be back in that three-by-eight by nightfall.”

“Jack wouldn't let that happen. Not now. Not now he knows and trusts you,” Owen protested.

“He might not get a choice,” Tosh said sadly. “That's why I can't leave. I can't risk going back in that cell. I'll die first.” She wrapped her arms about herself, a shudder running through her. The eyes she turned to Owen were dead. He'd done that, he thought bleakly, killed the life that until today had burned so brightly from those chocolate brown orbs. If he hadn't spoken up, the fear would never have resurfaced. He should never have asked her here. He should...

And then he knew what he had to do.

Seizing on Tosh's involuntary shiver, Owen frowned in concern. “You need to get to bed. You're freezing. And you've all the classic symptoms of shock.” His voice had suddenly turned professional. Owen the doctor. “Why don't you change into your pyjamas and get into bed while I get you a drink. We can't sort this out tonight. We'll work out what to do in the morning.” He gave a tentative smile of reassurance. “I promise you, Tosh, we'll find a way.”

“I don't see how,” she said quietly, in tones of utter defeat.

“Trust me.” Owen reached over to the head of the bed and pulled the faded purple, brushed cotton pyjamas out from beneath the pillow. He pushed them into Tosh's hand. “Go on, get changed. I won't look,” he promised, trying to ignore Tosh's wince of pain at his words.

He stood up, crossing the room to where his overnight bag lay discarded on the floor. Lifting the bag onto the polished top of the antique set of drawers, he looked inside. He knew what he was looking for. He pulled out a wash kit, laying it beside the bag. He didn't need to wash, that was another bodily need he no longer had to attend to. He remembered the day in his flat when he had gone round systematically emptying the fridge, the bathroom cabinet, every cupboard that continued unwanted remnants of the life he'd lost. And then two days later he'd bought a whole new set of wash products, lining them up carefully in his bare bathroom cabinet. He'd washed and brushed his teeth every day since, patting a splash of his favourite aftershave on his cheeks before he left the flat. The small actions made him feel, and definitely smell, more human, although he only had Gwen's word for that.

Beneath the wash kit was the object of his search. His medical kit. He'd never travelled without it since he'd started working for Torchwood. It seemed there had always been someone who needed stitching up. Ironically, the only person who needed stitching up these days was himself, the gash in his hand which would never heal. But the medical kit held other things. He found what he was looking for, extracting a small blister pack out of one of the myriad of small compartments, and pushing out two small white pills in the palm of his uninjured hand. Stepping sideways to the mini bar, he crouched down, examining the contents critically.

“Since you've already decimated the brandy, we'll have to make do with the whiskey,” he said casually, pulling out a miniature of a Scottish single malt. He stood up, taking a glass from a tray on the sideboard and decanting the thick amber liquid into it. All the time he kept his back firmly turned, painfully aware of the soft swishes of silk falling over smooth skin, to lay unheeded on the floor.

Moving like an automaton, Tosh stepped out of the ruby pool around her feet, pulling the soft, brushed cotton of her pyjama top round her shoulders. Trembling hands fumbled with the buttons, the movements accompanied by deep shuddering breaths and stifled sobs. The earlier storm of emotion had still far from subsided. Finally Tosh sat down on the edge of the bed, her hands clenching bunches of the fabric, her fingers flexing over and over, nails digging into the smooth Egyptian cotton.

At the sounds of the creaking bedsprings, Owen turned and crossed back to the bed, arms outstretched. In one hand the glass of whiskey, in the other the two white pills.

“I wouldn't normally advise sedatives washed down with whiskey, but this'll help you sleep.” He extended the hand holding the pills further in her direction.

Tosh shook her head, then, with a sweep of her hand, she knocked the white tablets from Owen's palm. They fell to the floor where they were immediately swallowed by the plush pile of the white wool rug. “No. I don't want sedatives.” Despite her continuing distress her voice was firm.

Owen shrugged and offered her the whiskey. “At least drink this. It will warm you up.”

Tosh took the glass from his outstretched hand, taking care not to touch his fingers, as though his very touch might burn. She looked pensively at the glass, swirling the amber liquid round the sides, breathing in the rich comforting aroma. She raised the glass to her lip as if to take a sip and then, as if thinking better of it, she tipped it back and drained the glass in a single mouthful.

It was only as she lowered the glass from her mouth that she saw it, the gritty residue suspended in the sticky liquid clinging to the smooth curve of the glass' bottom. She looked uncomprehendingly at the pale yellow powder, then, as her eyes raised to meet Owen's, he saw the incomprehension replaced first by a slow, dawning realisation and then abject horror.

“What have you done? Is this sedative?” She knew the answer even as she stammered out the question.

Owen's eyes remained locked with hers, the expression in them immeasurably sad.

“No,” he said steadily. It had been the only way. The only way they could both live with this night.

“Why?” It was a pitiful cry, striking to the very core of Owen's heart like a dagger's blade.

“I can't watch you suffer,” Owen said softly. “This was the only way.” He turned the white plastic bottle of Retcon over in his hands. “In the morning, everything will be as it was. You can go back to having that little shard of hope you've carefully nourished the last four years...”

“And you? How do you forget?” Tosh broke in bitterly. “How do forget you love me?”

“I don't,” he said sadly. “That's my penance. I get to remember. Every word, every swish of that ruby red silk, every tear. Because it's my fault. I was blind and selfish and a fool. I ruined the fairy-tale.”

Tosh laid a hand on his sleeve. “You love me now. We can just be together. That's enough. I'll make it enough. Please don't do this.”

Owen inclined his head to one side, memorising every detail of her pleading face, then shook his head, closing his eyes.

“But it wouldn't. It would never be enough. It would be torture, knowing that all we could share were chaste kisses and impersonal caresses when we want so much more. I can't live like that, and I won't let you live a half-life.”

“What are we going to do?” Tosh echoed the question from earlier.

Owen stood up and moved to the head of the bed, pulling back the quilted cover. With infinite tenderness, he turned and, cupping one arm under Tosh's knees and the other about her shoulders, he lifted her, unprotesting, into his arms and gently deposited her onto the soft sheets. As he started to pull the quilt over her, she raised an arm, staying his progress.

“Stay with me,” she pleaded, eyes tearful.

“I can't,” Owen said desperately, trying to pull his arm from beneath her hand.

“I just mean, hold me while I fall asleep. Why would that be so wrong? Just once I want to go to sleep in the arms of the man I've loved since the first day I saw him. You can give me that, can't you?” Her voice was stronger, a shadow of the logical, reasoning Tosh who talked down his objections in the Hub boardroom, but no less compelling or persuasive. What would be the harm? Just one night in each other's arms. One night he could cling on to for the rest of this so-called life he now had.

Unspeaking, he pulled away from her hand. Her gasp of despair followed him as he crossed the room to switch off the bright light of the chandelier, leaving only the dim, comforting light of the bedside lamp. He came back to the bed, standing beside Tosh, who was now looking up at him with uncertain hope. Already he could see the dullness of approaching sleep in her eyes. He kicked off his shoes, and, with an imperceptible nod of agreement, climbed in beside her, wrapping his arms about her, pulling her head onto his chest. She pulled the quilt over them both, snuggling down until she was curled against Owen's side, the contours of her body matching his. From her position on his chest, she turned her face so she could look up at him.

“I love you.” Her voice was sleepy, almost slurred. She was fighting the effects of the sedative that was part of the Retcon's formula, but the drug was winning.

Owen tightened his grip. He may not be able to feel her in his arms, but her words washed over him, eliciting an ache in his chest which, although he knew it could not be real, was no less painful.

“I love you, Tosh,” he whispered. She had to hear it, just once, said properly, meaningfully, so she knew it was the truth. He lifted her up so that her head was tucked into the curve of his neck shifting round until his lips were against hers. Then he kissed her, his mouth moving instinctively on hers, his teeth and tongue playing against her bottom lip until her lips parted, allowing him to slowly, almost reverently, thrust his tongue inside to meet hers. Despite her increasing drowsiness, Tosh flicked her tongue to meet Owen's in a duel, the curious sensation of Owen's cool tongue on her own warmer one sending shudders of burgeoning desire though her body. At the movement, Owen drew back, releasing her mouth, which mewed in protest at the desertion. But it was a muffled, incoherent sound, without real form. He was losing her. He had only a few seconds more. His lips were almost touching hers.

“I love you. Know that I will love you until the day I die.”

“You're breaking my heart.” Whispered words that shattered his soul. What could he say? There was no time.

“I know. I'm sorry. But it will be mended tomorrow. I promise.” At his words she snuggled closer, entwining her slender fingers with his long ones, tucking them next to her heart. There was a soft sigh of release. He sensed her body relax against his and her breaths deepen into the heavy stirrings of sleep.

Owen raised his eyes to the ceiling, fixing on an intricate plaster rose, and prayed for a death he knew would never come. Tosh shifted briefly in his arms, seeking more closeness. He should move. Leave Tosh's arms and watch her sleep until morning. He couldn't risk being beside her when she woke, but there were many, many hours until the dawn.


	4. Chapter 4

“I ordered you some toast and fruit.” Owen gestured to a covered tray on the small table set between the two armchairs in the bay window. “I figured you wouldn't want a full English...”

Tosh shot him a grateful glance and sank thankfully into one of the two chairs, tucking her bare feet beneath her for warmth. She lifted the silver dome from the tray, revealing an appealing array of three kinds of melon, strawberries, raspberries, blueberries, kiwi, mango, papaya and pineapple. Beside the fruit platter, half a dozen triangles of lightly toasted crusty bread stood to attention in a gleaming, polished silver toast rack, together with a small ceramic pot containing artful curls of pale, creamy yellow butter. Also on the tray were several tiny glass jars containing an array of jams and marmalades and, to Tosh's relief, a large silver teapot containing hot aromatic Earl Grey tea. Owen sat down in the other chair. Leaning forward, he poured a cup of tea while Tosh lifted a piece of toast from the rack and started to nibble cautiously on one corner of the dry bread. Discovering that the dry bread did not cause her stomach to heave, Tosh added butter and a smear of orange marmalade to the remainder and took a large bite, savouring the bitter sweetness of the preserve as it cleared the remnants of the sawdust taste from her mouth. Owen handed her the tea and she noticed with pleasant surprise that he had added just a splash of milk, for once actually appearing to remember how she took her tea. She sipped the hot liquid gratefully.

“Feel more human now?” Owen asked with a smile.

“Definitely,” Tosh admitted, picking up a raspberry and eating it with relish. “How much did I drink last night? I don't seem to remember a lot after the speeches.”

“You were drinking for two,” Owen said smoothly. Now was the moment of truth, the time to find out how well the Retcon had worked and to fix the lie he would have to live with until this tortuous existence came to an end.

“I guess. I have this weird recollection that we danced,” Tosh said, casting her mind about for any clues as to how she had spent the evening.

“We did, tongues were wagging,” Owen confirmed, keeping his eyes well away from Tosh's assessing stare.

Tosh's brow furrowed in consternation. “Did...did I make a fool of myself? Lift my skirt and do the can-can, or something?” Doing the can-can with her knickers showing was the least of Tosh's fears. More importantly, had she professed her undying love again? She wasn't sure she could live a third declaration down.

A fleeting smile crossed Owen's face as she spoke, so bleak Tosh could have almost described it as desolate, but it vanished as suddenly as it appeared, leaving in its place a calm, faintly amused expression.

“Owen?” Tosh's voice was tinged with panic. Just what had she done under the influence?

“No, you didn't make a fool of yourself,” Owen assured her. Then arching one eyebrow he added, “It's a shame. I would have liked to see the can-can.”

Tosh relaxed visibly. If she had said something, Owen clearly was going to be a gentleman for once and not call her on it. At least for the moment. She drained the last of her tea and stood up.

“I better get dressed.” She crossed to her overnight bag and carried it into the en-suite, closing the door behind her without a second glance.

As the door clicked shut, Owen slumped back into the chair. The Retcon had worked. She didn't remember. He'd returned their relationship to the status quo, and he had never felt so dead inside. From now on the burden was his alone. No, that wasn't true. Tosh still had to carry the familiar aching burden of unrequited love, but at least it was just that, an ache, always countered by just the faintest glimmer of hope. For him it would be an unrelenting, crushing weight on his heart, every day a hopeless reminder of what could have been.

A loud bleeping suddenly erupted from his jeans pocket. With a weary sigh, he pulled out his mobile and looked at the screen. A message from the Hub. Rift activity predicted. Get your asses back here. Jack. Normal business has been resumed, Owen thought dully. He stood up and moved quickly about the room collecting the last of his possessions together, stuffing them haphazardly into his overnight case. He tapped gently on the bathroom door.

“Tosh? Jack's asked us to get back to the Hub. Rift activity predicted. Will you be long?” In answer Tosh swung open the door. Her hair, still damp from the shower, was pulled back in a neat ponytail, the shantung silk of yesterday replaced by a practical, soft-grey lambswool jumper over faded blue jeans. How could he ever have imagined she was frumpy, Owen thought despairingly as she smiled and stepped past him, lifting down the garment bag hooked over the door of the wardrobe.

“Ready.”

“Let me carry that,” Owen offered. Tosh looked faintly surprised but handed over the case and garment bag. Crossing to the door, she opened it and waved Owen though.

He shook his head. “Ladies first.”

Tosh gave him a sharp glance, looking for signs of mockery in his face but there was nothing but an earnest smile. With a cheeky bob of a curtsey, Tosh vanished though the doorway.

Owen gave a final glance around the room, at the bed, forever imprinted in his mind as the place his life truly ended, and, with a deep shuddering breath, squared his shoulders, plastered a calm, urbane smile on his face and stepped through into the corridor beyond.

\--o0o--

_Some weeks later..._

There was something wrong with her voice. She'd said it was the pain in her shoulder but there was something more. And it wasn't the barely suppressed panic of his situation. She was hiding something. Maybe the pain in her shoulder was worse than she wanted to let on. Maybe she knew his mission was hopeless. Maybe...

“Owen,” Tosh said, her voice desperate.

“What's the matter?”

“There's no way to stop the meltdown. It's too far gone.”

Owen swallowed. “OK, OK, that is not good, is it? But come on, Tosh, there's got to be something. There's always something. Come on.” He wasn't ready to lose her. He wasn't ready to give up being in her life, even knowing it could ever only be on the periphery.

Sharp intakes of breath echoed through his earpiece.

“The only option now is to vent the flow channels internally...” Tosh explained despairingly.

“Vent them where?”

“The area you're in...that's the containment building.”

“Yeah,” Owen turned to face the bank of controls on the wall beside him with mounting despair.

“You'll have to set up a time delay programme, channel the fuel into that bunker and instigate permanent lock down. Seal the building and the meltdown will be contained within.” Every word that reached Owen's ears was hissed through gritted teeth. His chest tightened at the thought of Tosh in such intense pain. He had to get out of here. He should be there, in the Hub, being a doctor, not in some bunker trying to save Cardiff from nuclear meltdown. “And obviously remember to get out,” Tosh added unnecessarily.

“Yeah, I think I can remember that bit.” Owen grimaced and gave a mirthless laugh.

“I'll open the system protocol,” Tosh continued. “You just need to enter a time frame and authorise. OK?” Her voice faded into nothingness.

Owen straightened decisively.

“OK, Tosh. Let's do this thing.” He rubbed his hands together flexing his fingers and leant over the control desk with renewed purpose. “And Tosh... thank you.”

“That's what I'm here for,” she replied in a weak gasping voice. Then there was only the sounds of shallow breaths in his ear.

After several moments of pressing buttons on the control panels, Owen was rewarded by a message scrolling across the ominous red alert screen: System Protocol Initiated. Flow Channels Diverted.

“Yes! Rock and roll!” he exclaimed, raising his hands in triumph.

“Owen! Owen, get out of there!” Tosh's panicked warning blasted into his earpiece. He stopped dead.

The word “what” had barely formed on his lips as Tosh said frantically, “There's a power surge in the system...when that hits, it will trigger an emergency lockdown.”

Even as she spoke the red alert screen flashed the warnings. A buzzing alarm sounded, its bursts of sound in time with the revolving red alert light mounted on the wall. Owen watched in horror as, on the opposite side of the room, the heavily shielded metal door began to slide closed. He sprinted for the rapidly closing exit, arms pumping like pistons, feet pounding the concrete floor in long powerful strides.

His body slammed against the grey metal as the last sliver of the sanctuary beyond vanished from sight.

“No, no, no,” he screamed, his hands coming to rest uselessly against the door. “No. Tosh!” He was pleading. “Toshiko, I can't get out.” There was silence. He leant his head and back against the door in defeat.

“Not like this,” he murmured. “NOT LIKE THIS!” The second time he screamed it loud, a black tide of anger rising up. “I'M NOT DOING IT! Get me out of here, Tosh,” he pleaded helplessly. “GET ME OUT OF HERE! I'VE DIED ONCE, I'M NOT DOING IT AGAIN.

There was still only silence through his earpiece. Where was Tosh? Why wouldn't she say anything?

“Where's Jack?” he asked bitterly. “Where's Gwen and Ianto? COME ON,” he raged. “YOU WANT TO WATCH THE DEAD MAN DIE AGAIN?”

“Owen.” Finally Tosh's soft pained voice sounded. “Just stay calm.”

But the rage was too strong.

“Oh, why should I do that?” Owen retorted. “WHERE'S THE FUN IN THAT? I'm going to rage my way to oblivion.” And he let out a hoarse angry cry of frustration and fury.

He barely heard Tosh's whispering sobbed plea.

“Please don't.”

“WHY? GIVE ME ONE GOOD BLOODY REASON WHY I SHOULD,” Owen yelled, pacing the room like a caged animal, arms thrashing wildly, sending a metal stand crashing to the floor. “GIVE ME ONE REASON WHY I SHOULDN'T KEEP SCREAMING!”

“Because you're breaking my heart...”

Tosh's broken sob stopped him dead. The same words she had used in the hotel room. The words that had shattered his own heart forever. She hadn't remembered – the Retcon had done its work well – no, he'd broken her heart for the second time. Two times too many.

He leant against the bank of controls on the walls, head on his hands, panting. Then, sliding down the wall until he was resting on his haunches, he closed his eyes and said quietly, “I'm sorry.”

“It's my fault,” Tosh sobbed.

“No, no, it isn't,” Owen replied, sinking to the floor. “No, it isn't. Don't you go there, Tosh.” He paused, compressing his lips. There were things he needed to know.

“I'm so sorry,” he repeated. “What's going to happen to me, Tosh?”

He could hear the distress in her pained, gasping sobs.

“I can't...” she protested.

“Please,” he begged softly. “I need to know.”

There was a long pause as Tosh gathered her strength.

“The containment chamber will be flooded with the irradiated coolant...”

Owen closed his eyes. He might not know much about the inner workings of a nuclear reactor but he was only too aware of what happened when the human body was exposed to high levels of radioactive liquid.

“Ahh... My body will slowly decompose as I watch.”

There was another sob. “I should have been able to stop it.” Helpless anger and self-recrimination. Textbook Tosh.

“Shush,” Owen murmured. “Come on. There was no way you could have anticipated that power surge. Come on.” He paused. They had so little time. So much to say. “Besides, you've saved my back so many times in the past. Right from the moment I joined.”

“Second week,” Tosh recalled with a sad laugh. “I had to cover for you. Pretend I was a medic because you were hung over and unreachable.”

Owen found himself smiling at the memory. “What was it? A space pig?”

“Space pig,” confirmed Tosh with a wry chuckle of remembrance.

“We never did get that date, did we? You and me,” Owen said regretfully. He couldn't be completely honest, not when he knew it would make his death so much harder for her to bear. But he had to tell her that he regretted not having a chance with her. He owed her that much at least. “We sort of...missed each other. It was my fault...I didn't notice until it was too late.” In his mind's eye he could see Tosh's tear-streaked face, dark eyes swimming with tears she was fighting to contain. Utterly beautiful, every curve, every strand of dark silky hair burned into his soul. He wished he could see her face just once more, to kiss away those tears.

“I'm sorry,” he said finally, knowing how inadequate it sounded.

“Me too...” Tosh's words carried back to him, sad and sweet, and closing his eyes he clutched at them as a drowning man does a life preserver.

There was a sudden flurry of beeps accompanied by an ominous hiss, forcing him to open his eyes. Before him the message screen flashed its final message: Coolant Venting In Progress.

“It's starting,” Owen said quietly. He got to his feet, watching as the display screen buckled and distorted in the heat.

“Owen,” Tosh whispered in his ear.

“It's all right. Really, Tosh.” Owen stood tall, shoulders squared, facing the centre of the room, his face resigned and calm.

He was at peace. Soon Tosh would be free of the torment of loving him. And in just a little while, maybe his torment would end too.

“It's all right,” he repeated, spreading his arms wide to embrace his fate. “Oh, God.” A final prayer escaped his lips as Tosh's final whisper of his name filled his head.

“Owen.”

Closing his eyes to the warning lights and grey concrete, he conjured the memory he'd fought so hard to suppress. And as the wall of deadly coolant swirled around him, Owen Harper was far away from Cardiff; in a black suit, standing in a sunlit lane, the air filled with church bells pealing in a high stone tower, his eyes fixed on a fairy-tale vision of rich ruby silk and a siren's smile.


End file.
